escapeism
by teammcgonagall
Summary: Minerva's first few months at Hogwarts are far from easy.


Author's Note: The underlined phrases are lyrics from Regina Spektor's song "Field Below".

* * *

like ancient bruises

He held a New Year's feast in my honor. When I pleaded with him that it was too much, he placated me with a light smile and an excuse. "I have been headmaster for one year," he said, "and have not yet given a feast. Humor me."

So although I had been hired in early December, my first day was the first day of term for the new year.

I felt so young in that chair at Dumbledore's table, only four years older than the oldest among my new students. How they stared up at us! Some of them sighed, rolled their eyes, whispered something witty to a friend—while others, without blinking, watched us so intently, watched _him._ They were so young, so small. Had I ever been that young?

"Welcome back, Hogwarts!" Dumbledore cried from his place at the podium, and even the eye-rollers looked up, grinned, cheered with the rest of them. I trembled at the sheer volume of their voices joined as one.

"And now we begin another year! Another year of learning, of friendship, and laughter. And together, we greet this new year with a special addition to our small staff: with _great_ honor, I introduce to you my replacement—your new Transfigurations teacher. Please join me in greeting our _Professor_ McGonagall!"

A jolt ran through my spine when he called my name, my new name. All eyes turned to me, and hands were brought together in polite and enthusiastic applause; some even smiled in recognition. My answering smile was weak, my wave feeble and nervous. I glanced to Dumbledore for any social cue.

But it shook the rest of my reserve: he was smiling so kindly, so warmly, and his weathered hands boomed out the loudest applause of all.

The tears were quick to assault my eyes.

_Oh, Dumbledore, _I sighed to myself. _I'm sorry. I'm sorry for using you like this._

i am awake and feel the ache

but i wish i'd see a field below

"How do you like your office?"

He had come to my door without a warning, and I turned sharply to find him leaning at my side, just a few feet away. I lowered the hand that had clutched my chest in surprise.

"It's very pleasant, Headmaster," I replied, catching his piercing eyes for a moment before turning back to the window.

"Please call me Albus, Minerva," he amended gently, and from the corner of my eye I could see his smile.

"I'd prefer to call you Headmaster, if that's all right." I watched him straighten, and the smile slowly disappeared from his mouth.

"Whatever makes you feel more comfortable, of course." But his voice was not convincing. I turned away from the window, glancing around the bare room before I returned once more to him, struggling to force a smile upon my mouth.

"Yes, it's a very nice room, Headmaster." He took the hint and smiled kindly once more, folding his hands together in front of him before turning and leaving.

He had only just shut the door when the tears hit my eyes, hot and fast, and I fell back against the window.

i'm awake and feel the ache

I could feel the box under me, like the princess in that little Muggle story a girlfriend had told me _years_ ago, about a girl who couldn't sleep because she felt the presence of a solitary pea under a pile of mattresses.

I could feel the small tin box a foot under my spine, sitting on the cold floor—I could feel the very air it disturbed beneath me. I could even feel the presence of the letters _within_ that box, and I could feel the indents upon those pages from where the pen had been pressed a bit too hard.

The indents stung like stab wounds as the sloppy dark ink began to dance before my eyes.

_I couldn't sleep last night because all I could think about was the smell of your hair and the touch of your hands on me. It's all I can think of now, as I write this: your figure in the dress you bought that Monday, how you tripped in your shoes and how the dress slid so elegantly up your thigh before you could catch yourself and fix it back to your knee. I think about things like this about you all the time, and it's driving me crazy._

Oh, God, not that. Anything but those words.

but i wish i'd see a field below

The memories would hit me at the most unexpected times: sometimes it would be the eyes of a student, or the handwriting on a test. Other times it was words or inflictions and I would be forced back to that tiny little town, surrounded by ploughed fields and empty roads.

Other times it would be colors or shapes and suddenly I'd be back in that cramped office in London, the noises of the cafeteria becoming the murmur of a crowded street in my mind, or even sometimes voices would turn into _his_ voice, that loud happy thing that seemed to follow me everywhere.

Sometimes it would slip out. "Elphistone!" I would call out to Headmaster Dumbledore when I thought of something I needed to tell him, only to bury my head in my hands with embarrassment, and murmur my apologies. It would happen with students, too: the way the shadows would enhance a boy's cheekbones and I'd whisper "Dougal" without a thought, and wait for him to turn before realizing it wasn't him.

And sometimes, if it was just dark enough, I'd wake up from a nightmare and look out my window and it would suddenly be my father's farm, and Dougal would just be strutting into view by the time I fully awoke.

i wish i'd see your face below 


End file.
